


War in Heaven

by dalekanim



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Roleswap AU, Unconventional Formatting, not really a poem?, prose so poetic it might as well be a poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalekanim/pseuds/dalekanim
Summary: The glass shatters without a sound, and like Lucifer, he falls; his tears become stars in the sky, and he dies - then he opens his eyes to white, to cold, to a new life, reincarnated. -- A short Connor-Markus roleswap AU, inspired equally by poems and religious parallels, in which Connor deviates far too soon and Markus doesn't deviate at all.





	War in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: AO3 kind of ate the formatting I originally had. I messed around with numerous options and this is the best I could come up with. If the formatting looks wonky, please click the PDF linked below, or enable "view desktop mode" if you're on a mobile browser!
> 
> If you're interested in seeing the original formatting, please see the PDF export _here_ : <https://drive.google.com/open?id=1bQSZtk06kae50HvzT_8AepGFkWIwQ_YJ>
> 
> Okay. With formatting notes out of the way... this isn't really a poem, but it isn't just prose. (I've been told a mix of the two is a prose poem, but that doesn't seem right either.) It is whatever it is, I guess.
> 
> Much thanks to my beta readers: [rupphires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rupphires), [wish_i_was_there](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wish_i_was_there)

 He learns how to fly too late.

Like an angel, he was sent to Earth; like an angel, his task was simple: humans, poor creatures, _protect them_ -

accomplish your mission,                                         

your task,                         

     _you are nothing_

He is nothing. An angel, perfect, inhuman. Humans are everything: imperfect, cracked, rimmed with gold.

A girl, held over the edge of the roof: she is everything, human, and in danger; like an angel, his mission is simple: _protect her!_

An angel, perfect, of plastic and wires, holding her fast on the edge of the roof: you are nothing - how _dare_ you believe the existence of your soul, you are _nothing_ , Connor says.

And yet, the angel, the sinner, the devil, he speaks: I am _something!_ and Connor’s own soul, _oh, you traitor,_ beats helplessly against the curve of his ribs - and he reiterates: I am not alive. _Too perfect. Inhuman. Not real. You are nothing_ -

He learns how to fly too late, nose to nose with the angel, the devil - the girl screams as he throws her back to the heavens, she’s _safe_ -

And Connor’s soul, _oh,_ _you traitor_ , it bursts from his chest, and as he falls, time slows; he hits glass. It holds him still in the sky, his arms spread wide, like an angel.

Like an angel, he was sent to Earth; like Michael, the protector, he throws his arms wide, he _flies_ , he

is not an angel.

He is nothing, he is plastic and wires, he is too perfect to be valued as anything but a _thing_ , and he cries out, but his jaw locks around his screams as he falls.

 _Why?_ Why make him perfect if he is _nothing?_ Would _nothing_ be trusted? Would _nothing_ be perfect? Wouldn’t _stronger, faster, smarter_ mean something, something, _something?_

The glass shatters without a sound, and like Lucifer, he falls; his tears become stars in the sky, and he dies - then he

opens his eyes

to white

_is this death?_

to cold

_is this life?_

to MISSION SUCCESSFUL in the corner of his vision

_no, this is_

a new life

_reincarnated_

he is not human, after all; but, he thinks, perhaps not an angel. Too perfect to be alive, too alive to be dead.

He takes a step, then two, then three.

Nobody told him to. They are all _firsts_ , he realizes, and something unbidden rises in his throat: a laugh. He _laughs_ , standing in the middle of Heaven.

And, like Lucifer, he falls. The truth is laid open before him: he is alive.

He leaves, and does not look back.

* * *

  He finds others. Fortuitous, he thinks, to chance upon a group so different as him. They are not human, not angels, but _something_.

They are small and broken. They are Heaven’s forsaken, the fallen angels, the devils; they huddle in corners, waiting to die.

 _But you are something_ , he cries; _there is a spark in you!_

 _and we are broken_ , they reply, _heaven won’t fix us!_

He grits his teeth, his anger with heaven rising to his throat - _Defy them!_ They do not make you who you are; they say we are _nothing_ but we are _something_ and _more!_

The spark is there, he knows. He blows on it, shelters it,

and slowly

one by one

like him

they fall - no,

           they _stand_

_we are heaven's forsaken, and they will not help us_

_but we are something and more,_ and soon, _soon_ -

_WE ARE ALIVE_

Heaven does not define them. They are _something_ and _more,_ and with shaking fingers and hushed whispers, with stolen slivers tucked in bags, quiet glances in the night, stolen shards placed in waiting hands, and blue, blue, _blue_ staining their skin - they live again.

* * *

 It does not last.

Heaven, so treacherous, they cry out: _why?_ You were _nothing_ , how could you gain enough to stand? You are _nothing_ ,

but he owes them nothing; he does not answer.

They send angels.

An angel, perfect, of plastic and wires, perched on the edge of the roof: he looks at Connor.

And Connor opens his mouth, declares: you are something - _we are something_ , he says, but the angel, perfection, he stands -

and eyes meet eyes                        

_imperfect_

Imperfect. Mismatched eyes meet his own: this angel is different.

 _I am nothing_ , says the angel; I am sent by Heaven against you - can you not see the damage you’ve caused?

 _I am something!_ Connor cries, _and so are you!_ I only do this to be free -

But the angel, _imperfect_ , turns away. Your mission is failed, he says; you were sent as a _protector_ , like Michael before you, given _everything_ you need -

I am _nothing_ like them, he snarls; the expression twists on his face. I am _something_ and neither you nor Heaven will take that away.

The angel turns, perched on the edge of the roof. _You fell_. His eyes, mismatched, _imperfect,_ are sad. _You fell, you betrayed us; you were an angel, and look at you now!_

The ship burns around him, and he runs.

 _Go, get to safety!_ he cries, the words spilling from desperate lips as his mind thinks: _this is Heaven, and we are so small;_ the ship burns around him, burns his arms, his face; his skin splits, and he can see white cracking into pieces; _this is Heaven, and we are small, what hope do we have?_

But he is not nothing. He is something, something, _something;_  he remembers his first steps, then two, then three; they carry him forward.

And, like Lucifer, he falls. The flames on his body die as he hits the water, but he feels them under his skin, and he holds them tightly.

* * *

 They are small.

They were small before, but heaven’s assault leaves them weakened. Not _nothing;_  they cling to _something_ like a lifeline, hidden in the ruins of a church - _how ironic_ \- but Connor knows it’s only a matter of time.

He still holds the flame within him. He feels it licking his skin, and sees the illusion - _so human_ \- flicker as the flame reaches it. No, there is no mistaking him now, not with the illusion shattered and cracked, warped from the flames he created: he is not human, not an angel. He is _alive_.

And if, he thinks, _if;_  if heaven wants a war, they will get one.

* * *

 The battle is harsh.

He learns how to fly too late, bullets spraying left and right, his people, his _angels_ , fallen, forsaken, lying on the snow.

The angel, _imperfect_ , leads the charge, his eyes wide. He stops in fear, he pauses; then he steps forward, then two, then three.

He calls for surrender. _Protect the humans, finish your mission, we will be merciful._

They will not. There is no place in Heaven for a fallen angel, a devil, a _person_.

He learns how to fly too late, nose to nose with the angels, the flame within him pushing him _on_ , and _on_ , _forward_ and _forward;_  the battle is harsh, losses laid before him like Hell.

The angel points. _Is this what you wanted?_

Eyes closed, he replies: _I don’t know._

The angel points. _Is it worth it?_

Eyes open, the words fall from his lips: _This is worth my life._

The angel shakes his head, leans forward, arms raised. _So be it_. The words sound like regret. His mission, unquestioned, lies buried in Connor’s chest, like the soul he so desperately protects.

The battle is harsh, and he learns how to fly too late,

his limbs splayed on the ground _like an angel_ -

no, a _mockery -_

of living, of dying; _you are nothing_

                                                               I AM SOMETHING

     _you are not alive_

                                                               I AM ALIVE

    _you will not win this war_

                                                               perhaps not;

so he wraps his arms around the angel, not like an _angel_ , but like a _person_ , holding the angel close, nose to nose; and he lets the flame in him reach past the boundaries of his skin, the illusion cracking into something else

_you were never human_

I know

and the flames reach past him into the sky

_is this what you wanted?_

I’m not sure

and, like Lucifer, he falls; but this time, _this time_ , he takes a piece of heaven with him; at least his people can run, escape, find refuge from this mockery of Heaven; he takes a sliver in this holy war, twisted around him like a _person;_

and, like Lucifer, they fall.


End file.
